


Cascading Failures

by sirenseven



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Jason Todd, Brother Feels, Community: dckinkmeme, Deconstruction, Dick Grayson has issues re bodily autonomy, Forced Incest, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Victim Blaming, M/M, Minor emetophobia warning, Mutual Non-Con, No Lube, No Romance, Rape Aftermath, Self-Hatred, like this is definitely explicit but honestly the angst is the bigger part, nightwing 93, the dick & jason is real and the dick/jason is forced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24411208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: He's suffered before, and he'll suffer again, and right now he needs to suffer through this too. He'll survive it. It's just his brain telling him he can't.Or, fuck-or-die, but without any secret pining or remotely romantic feelings. Sometimes it's just guilt and horror.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 25
Kudos: 241





	Cascading Failures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BearlyWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/gifts).



> [dc kink meme](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/766.html?thread=31486#cmt31486) prompt: _I would absolutely kill to see a fic where Dick is forced to fuck Jason (for whatever reason but preferably not due to sex pollen/aphrodisiacs/drugs - I would prefer if they were both in their right minds please)_
> 
> _Preferably they wouldn't be in a relationship or have secret feelings for each other and this would be mutual noncon/rape with a focus on how horrified they are that they're having to do this to each other. I would really, really like if it was bottom!Jason for this, but that there is acknowledgement that Dick is being raped here too!_
> 
> _Other than that, go wild!_

“This is not a negotiation,” says Bane.

It should be ridiculous to even consider the offer—or order, as it may be. One-on-one, Dick would avoid fighting Bane whenever possible, but there are two of them. Together with Jason, the odds tip in their favor.

But. Cascading failures. One mistake exacerbating the next, until Dick is crouched over his injured brother in the center of a warehouse of bad guys, weaponless.

Jason's ability to fight is unclear, but with the maybe-broken leg and the unknown toxin, Dick is going to guess 'extremely limited.' Laying on cement can't be comfortable, but he hasn't gotten up since falling from the catwalk, just twisted around to prop his upper body up. That's the biggest tip off. Jason always gets up.

With the numbers and the likelihood Dick will have to carry Jason, taking them on himself isn't an option, especially without any escrima or grapples. In this wide-open central space, he'd get perforated in a second.

Even _considering_ doing what Bane says, though, is...

No. Not a chance.

“Yeah, I wasn't going to say 'negotiation' so much as 'comedy set piece,'” Dick says. When in doubt, quip until you come up with a better plan. “Not a very good one, though. I mean, you gotta have better material than this.”

Creaks from the catwalk and shuffles on ground level betray the men's displeasure, too many itchy fingers near too many triggers. For once, Dick sincerely hopes for henchmen to be completely loyal and attentive to their boss. For all his many (many, manymanymany) flaws, Bane isn't hasty or careless.

There's gotta be a way out.

If he had his _tools_ —But Bane was smart enough to take those. And Jason doesn't have his weapons, either, because that was the first thing the lackeys grabbed.

“On the contrary, I think I'm being quite reasonable,” Bane says, with the ease of a man who stands half a foot taller than anyone in the room and whose enemies are beaten. “You may keep your masks and your secrets. Your armor. No one else will touch you. But my men have been very hard at work, and they deserve a reward for the unexpected trouble you've caused them.

“Would you like to watch his head be blown out here and now?”

Dick is never going to say a single word about that stupid helmet again. He doesn't care if Jason looks like the most ridiculous stop sign in the world, if there's just a little more barrier between his brother's skull and a bullet.

“Or,” Bane continues, “would you like the chance to leave and procure an adequate antitoxin for your...colleague.”

It's the pause before “colleague” that really gets to him. Because Bane _knows_ who they are, knows exactly what their relation is. That “keep your masks” shit is just for the sake of his men. He knows full damn well that they're family, and he's gonna threaten to shoot them for refusing anyway.

Refusing to put on a _sex show_ for him.

Dick bares his teeth in preparation of what surely will be an ill-advised, painful, and satisfying attack.

“'Wing...”

It's the only thing that could have gotten him to stop.

Dick falters at the voice, way too soft for what Jason should sound like. Forget Dick; _Jason_ should be the one snarling back and ready to leap into a suicidal counterattack.

But he's not. When Dick looks back, he's not even holding himself up anymore. Just sagging on the floor with an uncomfortably gray complexion.

Shit. Fuck. Any doubts he had about the danger of the toxin are gone. He needs to get Jason out of here, he needs to get one of the Cave's catch-all antitoxins to at least buy time, and he needs to do it now. And he needs—he needs—

There _has_ to be another way.

Jason is looking at him, jaw steeled to hide a tremble. Dick doesn't have to see through the domino to know his eyes are scared.

“Say the word, and I'll kick their asses,” Dick murmurs, moving his lips as little as possible and keeping an eye on Bane.

“No you won't,” Jason groans.

“I'll give a really good go of it, though.”

“Nightwing.”

There's something awful and unfamiliar in Jason's expression. He's not sure he's ever seen his brother give _in_ before.

Dick balks.

“No.” His heart might be beating faster now than it did the entire fight. “No, I—I _can't_.”

To his _brother_? His little brother still, no matter how tall he gets? No. Impossible.

“Just...” Jason starts, before cutting off on a grimace and shudder of pain.

 _Fucking_ toxin. Dick's eyes scan over his body, like he's suddenly going to find a magic fix for it. Like Jason wouldn't have already used anything at his disposal if he had it. Any other option to keep up the fight.

Jason swallows hard, fixing him with a solid gaze even through their masks.

“I don't want to die,” he breathes, just loud enough for Dick to hear.

 _Don't ask me to do this!_ Dick wants to scream. He doesn't want to do this. He would rather they shoot him than do this.

But they won't shoot him. They'll shoot Jason. And Jason doesn't want to die.

He knows, with cold certainty, that Jason would never admit something so vulnerable if it weren't the only way he could think of to convince Dick.

Convince Dick to...to _rape_ him.

It's stupid to do in a crowd of enemies, but Dick closes his eyes. His palms press over them, blocking out the warehouse's bright lights, so hard the corners of the mask dig into his skin. The part of his brain that isn't consumed with horror, that is still assessing the situation, gauges Bane will allow him the pause so long as it works in his favor.

Breath in deep for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

He's suffered before, and he'll suffer again, and right now he needs to suffer through this too. He'll survive it. It's just his brain telling him he can't.

In. Hold. Out.

On the second exhale, Dick opens his eyes. He looks at Bane first, while his face is still steady, in case looking at Jason will break it.

“Excellent,” says Bane, reading the acquiescence in his body. “Please, proceed.”

Dick focuses on his gloves and only his gloves as he strips them off. His hands aren't shaking. Sometimes it's amazing what training can push you through.

“Other way around alright?” he asks in a pointedly casual voice, like he's asking if Bane wants coffee or tea.

Bane was specific, but Dick can try this small negotiation. Dick has done—Well, not this. Nothing like _this_. But in situations a million times removed, so different they might as well be someone else's life, with people he liked and was attracted to and _wanted_ , he's, you know. Bottomed. He can at least try to spare Jason further physical pain.

“No,” says Bane, a smug curl around his words. “You fuck him.”

Dick flinches.

 _Stupid goddamn_ —It's so _obvious_ Bane is only insisting to get under his skin. Only saying it for the titters and shuffles that echo out of all the dark corners of the room, which Dick tries to ignore. Bane doesn't actually care about the roles; he just wants to deny Dick.

He shouldn't have asked.

“Fine,” Dick snaps out, angry and tense.

Then he looks down at Jason again and it all goes cold.

The consolation is that Jason doesn't look any worse that he did a moment ago, so he still has time for a cure. The stomach-dropping flip side is that he's disabling the traps on his pants.

This is really happening.

“Pull 'em down for me?” Jason says softly, not looking at him.

Dick understands, but his stomach roils at the thought of becoming a more active participant. Jason shouldn't jostle his leg though. If Dick is selfish enough to let the injury get worse for his own comfort, he won't forgive himself.

Ha. Like he was planning on forgiving himself anyway.

He reaches under Jason to tug down the back of his pants, doing his best to preserve modesty. Too many eyes, and not one of them deserves to see a single thing they want. All he really needs is space to reach under. To reach...Jason's ass.

Dick glances up at Bane again, masked and impassive. Whether this is a turn on for him, or truly only for his men, he gives no indication.

The idea of asking Bane for any supplies is immediately dismissed. Like he's going to do all of this just to mess with them, and then agree, _oh, yes, of course I will provide condoms and lube to ensure safe sex_.

For the single semester Dick spent in college, he had an RA who seemed to have a box of condoms on him at all times, freely tossing the packets out for anyone who asked. That's a silly thought to have right now, but Dick wishes he had taken inspiration. Bat-preparedness isn't all it's chalked up to be, turns out.

 _That's it, Boy Wonder_ , says the snarky part of his brain that sounds sort of like the Titans and sort of like Barbara and sort of like Jason. _Keep joking. You're doing great._

Just like any other task. Break it down and follow the steps. Step one, lubricate. Step two, stretch. Step three...insert rod A into slot B.

Step four, wildly repress for the rest of your life.

Dick sucks on two fingers. Saliva is a fucking joke for lube, but it's the best he's got. Someone wolf whistles, and he flinches for the unwelcome reminder that they're not alone. He wishes they could reverse, Dick in the dark corners and these assholes trapped under the stark lights.

They're not large or hot enough to be stage lights, but for a moment Dick can imagine it perfectly.

Jason is eyeing him like he's crazy. Dick laves his tongue around the fingers, privately relieved for the excuse not to explain. And even more worried for the suspicion Jason has no idea why he's doing it.

Goddammit. Bane should have let them fucking switch. Dick bolds and underlines a mental note to make his life as painful and miserable as possible, as soon as (if) they get out of this. It's a good thing he's determinedly pretending no one else is here, because if he acknowledges Bane _is_ here, he might do something stupid like charge him.

Dick's fingers leave his mouth, slick as he can make them.

Alright. Okay. On to the touching part. The touching Jason part. The touching Jason's _parts_ in ways he never wanted to be _touching_ them part.

And he can't even pretend not to be here himself, because he has to keep doing things.

Stops Jason from having to do things, Dick thinks. Then he vehemently has to remind himself that that is a _good_ thing, the thinnest dregs of protection he can provide, and not something that should make him bitter and resentful. He has no room to be bitter and resentful. He's the one doing things.

“Stop,” Jason says abruptly, when Dick's hand is half a breath from him.

Dick freezes immediately. It's a sign of how fucked things are that he's not hit by a feeble hope of some new angle, but by additional worry over what else has gone wrong.

“Just do it,” Jason grunts, not looking at him. “I don't need this.”

Dick hesitates. He'd like to follow whatever Jason wants here. Really he'd like to follow what they both desperately want and stop this whole thing, but barring that, he'd at least like to grant Jason whatever he possibly can to get through this.

Except, he has the distinct impression Jason's words were brusquely formed, without really understanding.

Dick isn't privy to the details of his brother's sex life, with how distant Jason is. They were on good terms before he died, but not especially close with Dick in another city. They're on complicated terms now, team ups like these the only olive branch that keeps Dick from outright describing them as estranged.

An olive branch he assumes will be burnt to cinders after this.

Dick can do math, though. Dead at fifteen. Years without his mind, then single focused on revenge. (God, he's too young. He's still so young. Dick doesn't care that Jason has been an adult for some time; he's still Dick's _little_ brother.) Not a lot of time left for intimate relationships. Assuming Jason is even into guys, or bottoming, or intimate relationships at all.

It's not impossible. Dick can't know for sure. But he's got a solid guess that Jason has never done this, and the proof is only racking up.

“Are you sure?” he asks, quiet voice the only acknowledgment of their audience. “I mean, it's. It'll...hurt.”

They can't even look at each other, eyes dancing over heads and past shoulders to avoid contact.

God, he can't do this. He doesn't want to do this; please don't make him do this. He doesn't want to hurt Jason.

“I can handle a little pain,” Jason grunts.

“I know. I know you can. Just, I don't...Um.” Dick's cheeks burn. “There's not any lubrication. So. It hurts. A lot.”

There is almost nothing Dick wants less than to have to force himself in as Jason bleeds.

Denying Jason whatever solace he asks for is on that short list though, so he reluctantly adds, “But it's your call.”

Jason clenches his jaw tight enough to make the muscles bulge. Dick knows exactly how hard it is to force any words out right now, and waits.

“It's your call too,” Jason finally says.

“What?” Dick's chest shudders and stills. He feels cold all over. Jason can't possibly think that he—that he wants _anything_ from this, except for it not to happen at all.

The man in question glowers at his gobsmacked expression.

“Not like that, stupid. I mean that I'm guessing you don't want to hurt me.”

“I don't want you to pick based on what you think I want,” Dick says honestly. Ninety percent honestly. Maybe eighty. He's trying to crush the other twenty. He swallows back a wave of revulsion at himself before the next words, tracing cement scuffs on the ground. “I'm going to hurt you no matter what.”

Jason huffs. “This is happening to you too, jackass.”

Dick's head snaps up. Jason scoffs at whatever he sees there. Despite the toxin, he pushes himself up on his elbows to glare Dick from a better position, mouth opening.

“I won't wait forever,” interrupts Bane.

They both jolt at the reminder.

With no interest in finding out what happens if Bane does lose his patience, Dick looks to Jason, seeking out a confirmation. 'Consent,' he'd almost say, if that weren't such a fucking joke.

Jason straightens his hips, seemingly unconscious of the action, and sinks back to the floor. He nods.

“As much as you think it needs,” he mumbles.

Best Dick is going to get, with none of them willing to say the words.

He presses in the first finger. It is, thank god, not a struggle, even though the saliva has largely dried as they spoke and turned useless.

Dick thought talking was bad, but it turns out the silence is worse. The attention presses down like a physical weight. He can hear every cleared throat, every shuffle, every murmur of annoyance where he tries not to distinguish the words, not to know they're complaining about how little they can see. He can hear Jason painstakingly keeping his breathing even. Worse, he can hear his own work, even as he tries to silence it.

He needs to move on. It's not enough time, but he's not sure if it would ever be enough time. He can't bear to stretch this out. Jason said to get it over with, Dick justifies to himself, and then feels awful.

He shouldn't need justifications.

He shouldn't be _doing_ this, not to Jason and not to anyone, but he failed in the fight and he failed to protect Jason and now he's going to fail to stop this too.

He wedges in the second finger. This time, there is a notable stretch, and Dick watches a grimace flit across Jason's face. He has to pause for a second, breathing deeply against the urge to vomit. He can't, he can't, he can't—

“Hey,” Jason grunts. “None of that.”

Dick swallows. “None of what?”

“I can see your guilt complex building a mile away.”

Oh, to be a mile away. Dick would love to be a mile away right now.

“This isn't your fault,” Jason says, lowering his voice so only Dick can hear.

Dick's incredulity must show across his face. Jason rolls his eyes, discernible even behind the domino.

“You are getting raped,” Jason says slowly, making Dick flinch at the word, “just as much as I am.”

 _It's not the same!_ his mind shouts, thought he can't articulate how.

He's worked enough cases, painstaking on research and sensitivity, that he knows it has nothing to do with penetration—or with gender, or who wore what, or any of that. From an objective standpoint, he has as little power here as Jason.

But it's not the same because—because—

Because he's the big brother. Even if Jason doesn't like him, or doesn't want him around, or doesn't need any help, it's always going to be a little bit Dick's job to look out for him. Not be the weapon used to hurt him.

“Dickhead,” Jason mutters.

Dick catches his accelerating breath. He's never been so happy to have a name that doubles as an insult. Easily disguised in the field, but enough to pull his attention.

Breathe in for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay?” Jason eyebrows arch.

“Well. No. But...okay.”

Dick doesn't think he can quite reach the level of _it's not my fault_ right now, but he can at least cling to _Jason doesn't think it's my fault_. He'll...work his way up to it.

As soon as this is over. Which, god, he hopes it can be soon.

He starts turning and splitting his fingers, with as much gentleness as possible.

“How are you acting so calm?” Dick asks, to avoid that crushing silence. He hopes he's not interrupting some great dissociation technique Jason was working on, but it seems like distraction helps them both.

“Someone's gotta be,” says Jason. “I mean, I figure if you're losing it now, I should wait to lose it later.”

Dick rolls that thought over, slowly pumping his fingers. It's easier if he thinks of his hand as an object disconnected from his brain.

“You're trying to look out for _me_.”

“Stop sounding so surprised, Dick. I can be nice.”

“That's not— _I'm_ the....you know.” Even pitched so low, the instinct to avid mentioning their specific relationship in a room of enemies holds strong.

“Are you gonna to do it or what?”

Dick jolts so hard at the new voice his fingers jab inside Jason.

“Sorry!” he whispers sharply, as Bane quiets the speaker. And then, preemptively this time, “Sorry.”

Because he has an inkling Bane is going to agree. So, despite himself, Dick's fingers start spreading more insistently, determined to get in what prep he can before it's too late.

Sure enough:

“My men grow impatient,” says Bane, like they didn't fucking notice that.

It's not an order, but it might as well be.

Dick regretfully pulls his hand back. He can't believe he's hit the point where fingering his brother (yeah, he's gonna have a breakdown over that sentence later) is the more appealing option.

It's only when he goes for his own suit that a big fucking flaw in this plan occurs to Dick.

His eyes drop closed. Dick scrubs his palms against the mask, hyperaware of the pair of fingers he's carefully keeping away from his face.

“You're not hard,” Jason guesses.

Dick nods into his hands. Not that there was any chance he would be, but the idea that he's going to _have_ to be...

“This is fucking ridiculous, for the record,” Dick says, louder, just in case some rare kind soul wants to take pity on him.

“Just take it out, pretty boy!” someone shouts back.

So. Probably not a lot of kind souls here. Dick is really not a fan of this increased audience participation thing going on.

“Not a very creative group,” Jason mutters, just to him.

Dick musters a weak smile, opening his eyes, because he knows Jason is resisting the impulse to shout back in favor of trying to reassure him. And he must be the worst older brother in the history of older brothers, but fuck if it isn't working just a little bit.

“Thought I was done with hecklers,” he whispers, vague enough to get away with, though Jason will know he means the circus.

He gets an equally cracked smile in return.

“Okay,” Dick breathes.

One more thing that he can and must get through. He unclasps the hidden connectors between the halves of his suit. The shittiest part is that it's too tight to really put his hand inside properly, even if it weren't for the cup. He is going to have to bare himself for all these people.

Another deep breath, and he shoves it all down just enough to free his dick. Everything he has goes into pretending not to hear the sounds and reactions that follow. He wishes it was as easy to close his ears as his eyes. When the sounds rise enough, they echo off the metal walls.

Jason is looking at his face only, with the smallest encouraging nod, and that's what matters.

Dick wraps his hand around himself, letting his eyes fall closed. Just shut it out. The people, the situation, who he's with—

“You got this,” says Jason.

Dick falters, eyes opening.

“Hood,” he says, leagues beyond uncomfortable, “I don't mean to be rude, but...”

“It would be easier if I shut up.”

“Right.”

Jason makes a zipped-lips gesture. Dick notes the trembling and sluggishness in his limbs with no small amount of worry. He's gotta be faster about this.

Alright. Take two. No fantasy, because he wouldn't know what to imagine. No former lover whose memory would be tainted by this forever. Just sensation. Just a body, disconnected from his brain. God fucking knows his body has done this before, whether he wanted it to or not.

He makes quick work of it. It's a relief to his logical brain, though more sickening guilt piles on.

“Ready?” Dick says, pretending he's not holding his hard length in one hand and looking down at his literal brother.

Stupid question, but Jason nods.

“Any other hot tips you wanna give me?” Jason asks, flippant tone belied by a slight tremble.

Bane chuckles at the phrasing, the only one close enough to hear. Dick ignores him.

“It, um. It can be easier on, uh.” Fuck, he can't believe this is a thing he's saying, out loud, to his brother, in a circumstance where it is immediately relevant. Counting on context to carry him through, he finishes shortly, “Hands and knees.”

“No,” says Jason.

Yeah. Somehow he figured Jason would reject that particular indignity, easier or not.

“It can also be more comfortable if you're on top to control it, but...” Dick trails off, looking at Jason's injured leg. Not a lot of comfort to be gained by putting weight on that.

It's a shameful relief. He's not sure he could handle it to be on his back again, watching Jason move above him like rain and blood and ash, dredging up memories best left behind...

Jason steals his jaw and looks straight up. “Let's just get this over with.”

Dick can see each step he'll have to take. Pull Jason's pants down a little further to make room. Spread his legs without making the injury worse, so he can get between them. Guide himself in. Every part of it revolts him.

Jason releases a breath when Dick fails to move.

“C'mon. I'm just gonna lay here and look pretty while you do all the work.”

Hardly a comforting sentiment, but the tone is forcibly relaxed and humorous, pushing Dick to breathe slower. He wishes that he didn't have to count on his little brother to reassure him, but he's grateful for the gesture. The least he can do is return it.

Dick huffs out air, landing somewhere in the vicinity of a laugh. “I see how it is. Zero of the effort and all of the credit, huh?”

“Something like that,” Jason teases. Tries to tease. Pretends to tease. Whatever. The act is helpful.

Step one and two he executes with careful detachment. Dick just manages to keep the front of Jason's crotch covered as he ensures he'll have room in the back. Any small mercy. He's even more careful with Jason's leg as he positions himself closer, nudging the other one aside and bracing with a hand beside Jason's shoulder.

Step three...

“Quick and efficient,” Jason says, swallowing. It's a mercy to have the mask blocking off his eyes, not have to see what they're doing.

Dick lines up.

“I'd say to relax...”

“But that's not gonna happen,” Jason finishes.

Dick nods. “Try to—like you're trying to push me out. With the muscles.”

He hopes Jason takes the advice, even if it sounds contradictory. He doesn't insist. How Jason deals with this is up to him.

How Dick deals with it is not. 'Lie back and think of England' sounds like a fucking dream right now.

He pushes in.

Jason is tight and hot in that almost-too-much way, which is good and bad. Good, because Dick has far fewer worries about going soft midway through and dragging this out. Bad, because he's going to have to know that for the rest of his life.

He moves slow but steady until he's entirely seated. Avoiding hurting Jason is the only thing more important that doing this as fast as possible. By the barely held back grimace, he's not even succeeding at that. Jason shifts around, and some of it feels terrifyingly, horribly, nightmarishly... _good_ , squeezing around him.

Dick sucks in a shaky breath, dropping his head. He avoids the intimacy of putting their faces in a direct line, hovering vaguely over Jason's shoulder instead.

“Do you,” he whispers, hunched over, “do you want me to try and make it feel good or—”

“Fuck no,” says Jason.

Dick exhales in relief. At least one of them won't have to suffer that specific kind of awful. Maybe Jason would handle it better; maybe Jason is just stronger than him in general, but Dick remembers how that festering point of shame can...

Anyway. He's also relieved not to have to focus on anything but getting off, bad as that will be.

“You can move,” says Jason.

So he does.

Dick keeps blocking out any commentary from the peanut gallery, and attempting to block out any commentary from his senses too. The body that is arguably his moves. The brain that would like not to be his catalogs every twitch and expression from Jason, slowing the hips each time there's any hint of discomfort.

It's a stuttering mess. It's also (he hates himself) not unpleasant physically, if not enough to get him off.

“Would you just—” Jason bites out after a horrible minute. He presses his lips together till they go white, then tries again. “Just go. Just do what you need to do to finish this.”

Dick feels a little less like a person every second. He takes in a breath for four but forgets how long to hold it.

Jason asked. He can do what Jason asked.

He ends up dropping his head into the man's shoulder, trying to think of him as nothing more than that. Anonymous man. Anonymous sex. Anonymous place. At the risk of sounding like a pathetic idiot, Dick prefers to be in love, but that's just too much of a fucking stretch to make here.

The hips he would like no part in claiming as his take up a steadier rhythm. Not hard, but strong enough.

Strong enough that finally, finally, with a shuddered breath of air into Jason's jacket, he's done. Jason is so dry he can feel all the—the _liquid_ that spurts inside.

Dick is an ugly, disconnected thing of separate pieces, and the chart of which ones belong to him and which don't is fully smudged. He feels floaty, in a nauseous way. The urge to throw up is only slightly more distant that the knowledge he shouldn't.

Turns out it was still possible to top his list of bad sexual experiences.

He lifts his head. Jason's jaw is tight, and he's facing the ceiling, and he doesn't look at Dick.

Dick doesn't know what he expected.

The need to get out is consuming. Barely remembering to withdraw slowly and mind Jason's leg, he pulls away. Shaking fingers shove himself back into his pants on instinct, flinching as the first clap rings out.

Maybe Bane intended it as a single sarcastic bout, but the rest of the room follows his lead either way. It's a scattered applause. There aren't as many of them as Dick started to believe. His mind had conjured up a whole stadium.

“Hood?” he asks, daring to look.

“I'm good,” Jason says. He sounds like he's lying. Dick would be lying, and he wasn't even...

 _Jason doesn't think it's my fault._ That thing he was going to cling to. He'll have to ask if it's still true, when he can pluck up the nerve. If he ever sees Jason again.

Jason's hands fumble on his pants—groin still hidden, the uncovered section Dick just violated on the cold floor again. Dick waits in numb silence, until he realizes the motions are too uncoordinated. Jason is paler too. The toxin.

Dick reaches over to help him redress, with a detachment that isn't even intentional.

Heavy footsteps approach, stopping just in time for Dick to spin around in front like he's still a protector. Bane regards them, close enough Dick has to crane his neck.

“He needs the antitoxin,” Dick says, voice firm in a way he doesn't feel.

“Hm,” says Bane. “Shame.”

Dick shakes. Bane didn't _say_ , technically, didn't say he would—But Dick thought it was implied. _The chance to leave and procure an adequate antitoxin_ ; it's not “I'll let you go,” but Dick thought—

He didn't _do this_ for _nothing_.

He's careening right into what will surely be a beaut of a panic attack when the skylights smash in.

–

Dick swivels back and forth in the batchair.

Bruce would sigh if he heard Dick calling it that, but that's what it is. The big chair in front of the batcomputer, with the pointed corners like ears. With the height pumped up all the way and seated to the very back, he can look over to watch his feet dangle above the ground.

It's comforting. Reminds him of being Robin, when he could do this with the chair at its lowest setting. Good memories to push against the bad.

Tim and Stephanie didn't see anything, Dick reminds himself. That's important.

They saw Dick throw up over the floor when they got back to the Cave, because everyone saw that, but they didn't know why. Dick's halfhearted excuse convinced no one. Bruce insisted on taking a sample of his blood to test for the toxin as well. But. No one actually _knows_.

At least not until Jason wakes up.

If he points his toes, they brush against the floor when he kicks his legs.

He should change. They got back hours ago. But the idea of peeling off his suit, even now, even in privacy, makes him nauseous again. It's—

It was worse, when everyone was around. He knew they were largely focused on Jason, passed out and wan and breathing far too shallowly by the time they got back, but he still couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Too many eyes around, even if they weren't looking.

Throwing up and drawing everyone's attention didn't help.

The feeling has abated now that he knows he's alone. But he still won't take off his suit.

Well. Alone except for Jason, still unconscious in the infirmary. The steady beeping of his heart monitor is a calming companion.

Kick, kick, kick.

He wonders if Bruce has ever done this. If the inches he has on Dick make his legs too long, no matter the height of the seat. If he would ever do something so childish even if they aren't.

Probably not.

God, it's funny—Were Jason awake, no way he and Bruce could have stood to be in the same room that long. As things were though, Bruce didn't take so much as a five minute break for hours, blood tests and debriefs and antitoxins, and then just monitoring the rise and fall of Jason's chest in paranoid silence. Alfred had to practically peel him off with a chisel, insisting he get _some_ rest once they had nothing to do but wait.

Dick promised to notify them if anything goes remotely wrong. He's not sleeping tonight.

If he focuses really hard, he can almost imagine it's the green pixie boots swinging, bright against the dark stone. Not dark against dark, like everything he is now.

He should really change. The actual act seems impossible, but the idea of being in new clothes sounds fantastic. The Nightwing suit isn't especially comfortable to sit in for hours anyway. This particular one is too grimy to contemplate. Dirt and sweat and—and whatever he tucked _back inside_ , after. He can't even remember if there was blood. Fuck, he should have noticed if there was blood, but he's—it's all—fuzzy—

Dick jerks his head up. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. Repeat. Repeat.

Stalactites on the ceiling. Beeping heart monitor. Chittering bats. Hum of the computer. Distant running water. Slightly dank smell of the Cave. Sharp antiseptic. Padding of the batchair. Uncomfortable press of the seam near his armpit.

He's okay. Nothing is happening to him right now. Everyone else is as safe as they can be, snug at home and getting rest.

In, hold, out.

God, he's fucking mess.

Dick spins the batchair to look at the screen, as if he'll find new information. The windows for the blood tests are still up. There's a series for Jason, steadily dropping values as the antitoxin did its work and his vitals leveled out. One for Dick, marking him as clear and healthy.

If Bruce had known, he would have tested for a lot more.

If Bruce had known, Jason probably wouldn't be in his armor still, one pant leg cut up to the knee so they could scan and then splint it—dislocated, not broken. Dick can't decide if Jason would want everyone to leave his shit alone, or to get him out of the defiled clothes before he has to wake up. The others opted to the first, even not knowing everything. Dick is too much of a coward if it's the second anyway.

He almost tackled someone when Tim and Alfred pulled off Jason's bulky jacket to make the cot more comfortable. He's not sure what he would have done if anyone went for the pants.

Dick has to breathe careful and slow again at that thought. There's a phantom feeling in his bare palms, the sensation of thick fabric pulling down. The lingering impression of Jason looking anywhere but at Dick. He should probably start getting used to the latter.

Kick, kick, kick as he swivels back. It's selfish, but Dick can't bear to leave until he sees Jason up and walking for himself. Healthy, for some given version of it.

Proof he didn't ruin it all for nothing. If Jason is alive...

If Jason is alive, there's a chance for Dick. He's not sure how good a chance, not sure for what, but a chance at something that isn't sitting in this chair in an eternal state of limbo, waiting for the gallows.

Another twenty minutes of ambient noise pass, where Dick does nothing but swing his legs and think, before the heart monitor accelerates slightly.

Dick jerks up, panic drumming his ribs.

Jason is awake.

Jason is _awake_ , making a disgruntled sound and shifting inelegantly on the cot. His eyes squint open, unfocused in the moments before full awareness.

Dick should go help. Recap the medical treatment, how long he's been out, clear up any details Jason is fuzzy on and see if he's still experiencing any symptoms. That's what you do for someone out of medbay. He should notify Bruce or Alfred because they asked him to, and because they were terrified even if neither would admit it, and because they wanted to do a final blood test after.

He does none of those things. He stays frozen in his too-tall chair, staring at Jason with increasing dread.

After a minute, sitting up and noticing the knee splint, Jason spots him.

Is Dick looming? God, he hopes he's not looming. He's thirty feet away and well aside of any potential exits, but he still hopes he's not looming. He doesn't want to...Being boxed in. It never makes him feel better, when he's in a bad state.

“Hey,” says Jason, a little hoarse.

“Hey,” says Dick.

It's fucking ridiculous to talk across this distance. Dick makes no move to close it.

Jason pokes the splint, foot wiggling below it.

“Am I supposed to stay off this?”

“For a few weeks,” Dick says, numb habit taking over. “The knee was dislocated, but you didn't tear any ligaments or need surgery. Alfred popped it back in place.”

“Neat,” says Jason, and stands up.

Dick winces.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Relax.” He half hops all of two feet to the wheelchair they have ready in the infirmary area—stiff and medical, nothing like Barbara's leaner model. Dick sits still and utterly fails to help.

With a push off his good leg, Jason covers most of the distance between them. Another spin on the wheels, and he rolls to a slow stop a few feet away.

“So,” he says.

At least he's not storming out right away or pissed about being brought to the Cave, medical necessity be damned. Dick swallows. Jump on the opportunity, because you might never get the chance again.

“As far as I know, I'm clean,” he forces out, looking at his legs as they fold up onto the chair, “but I'll get tested to double check.”

“Oh,” says Jason. He sounds uncomfortable. Dick can't look. “Uh. Same.”

Tucking his knees up to his chin would just be a step too childish, so Dick settles for crossing them. His fingers squeeze and release the Kevlar blend over his thighs. He never did think to get his gloves back.

“'Least I can't get pregnant,” Jason says after a beat.

Dick flinches.

“Sorry. I'm...” A deep breath, before Jason clears his throat. “Do you want me to go?”

Dick's head jerks up at that. “What?”

Jason looks exactly as uncomfortable as he sounds, scanning over the bats above to avoid eye contact. “It just seems like you don't really want to see me, so...I mean, this is your place more than it is mine.”

Dick doesn't know where to even begin tackling that. All he ends up with is, “I don't want you to go.”

“Okay.”

“Are—” Stupid question, to ask if he's okay. Dick almost does anyway, before he chickens out. He drops back to the impassive clarity of medicine. “The toxin should be flushed out, but are you still experiencing any symptoms?”

Jason regards him for a long moment. “Nope. Symptom-free.”

“That's good,” Dick murmurs. He lips won't seem to move much more than that.

“Yep,” Jason agrees, voice far too loud and lively in comparison. “Wouldn't want it all to be for nothing, right?”

Dick closes his eyes to breathe carefully, hands clenching into fists over his knees.

“Jesus, would you stop acting like you broke me?” Jason snaps. Dick's eyes flick open against his will to witness the ire. “You say you don't want me to leave, but you can't even look at me.”

“I don't...think you're broken,” Dick says honestly. The idea never even occurred to him. He swallows. “I thought _you_ wouldn't want to see _me_. After I...hurt you.”

Jason's annoyance punctures. “Oh.”

He sighs. After a moment, the squeaking wheels shift around and closer. When Dick looks up, Jason is still out of arm's reach, but positioned against the computer console alongside Dick to face in the same direction.

“So I see we're back at the self-loathing portion of our evening,” Jason says in a light voice.

Dick exhales. “It's morning.”

Somehow, though, that one sentence from Jason actually makes him feel a little better, if only for the tone it's said in. _Jason doesn't blame me._

“I just should have been able to do something to stop it,” Dick says. He doesn't know if it's a desperate attempt to explain why it wasn't his fault, or a desperate attempt to explain why he still feels like it was.

“Yeah, well, join the club,” Jason says. “I mean, talk about an embarrassing crew to get rescued by, Blondie and my half-price successor.”

“Be nice to Tim,” Dick says on instinct. “He's a good kid and he deserves better.”

“Gotcha. So I should just be an ass to Blondie.”

“Batgirl,” Dick corrects. “And no. She's a good kid too.”

Jason is smirking at the ceiling.

“What?” Dick asks.

“Nah, nothing. I was just worried you were gonna be all nice and skittish with me forever.”

Dick almost smiles back. For the first time, he's not terrified at the idea of there being a future. The immediate need to take off his suit remains daunting, but Jason isn't running. Not everything is ruined, even if Dick is.

“You're really not mad at me?” he can't help but verify.

“Why would I be?” Jason scoffs, though he obviously understands exactly why. “I was the one dumb enough to get myself knocked off the catwalk and injected with...What are we calling it, Bane-Toxin?”

“Tetrado—”

“Yeah, I'll read it in the file later.”

“That could have been anyone,” Dick says. “We all slip up sometimes. I was the one who...”

Only he can't even say what he was the one to do. There are some sentences that turn themselves into physical obstructions, unable to get through his throat, and _I came from raping my brother_ is one of those.

“Christ, not this,” Jason mutters. “You're—Fuck, I know you've worked rape cases before. You _know_ that shit doesn't matter.”

Dick nods jerkily, but Jason keeps talking.

“It doesn't matter who's on top, or who stuck who, or if it's a guy who got hurt—Or a woman who did it, or you thought you were in love with them, or got drunk, or they claim you led them on—”

“ _Stop it_.”

Dick's face presses into his hands, breathing hard. He can manage the in-for-four, but the hold and out counts are all fucked up.

No rain. There's no rain, because he's in the Batcave, and there's no blood on his hands, because he didn't kill anyone. His suit isn't—His suit _is_ filthy, but it's not...ash....

Chittering bats. Hum of the computer. Distant water. Smell of antiseptic.

He holds for seven, breathes out for eight, and removes his hands.

Jason's eyes are a little too wide, spooked. Dick isn't supposed to show cracks like this. He's the reliable one.

“First time regrets?” Jason jokes shakily.

Dick kind of wants to punch him for the glibness, and kind of wants to burst into hysterical laughter. Or tears. He's undecided.

He controls himself.

“Not my first time,” Dick mutters, sagging back in the chair like all his strings have been cut.

“I'm...you know what I mean.”

The sliced-off section of Jason's pant leg dangles halfway out of the infirmary trash, discarded in a rush and never fixed.

“Yeah,” says Dick, “I do.”

“ _You_?” Jason says, with just that kind of shock Dick hates. “You were...”

“Don't.”

There's silence, for the span of a breath.

“Sorry,” says Jason. “I shouldn't have...Sorry.”

Dick takes a deep breath, but at least it's not one he needs to count. “S'okay. Anyway, I don't know what it matters after...”

“It matters. I'm...You don't have to talk about it.”

That's good. Dick wasn't planning on it.

“And...you too?” he asks, well aware of the hypocrisy.

“No,” says Jason, with blatant honestly.

The relief hits Dick in a rush. Not that he understands why, considering Jason already has enough trauma for ten lives, and after today—yesterday—sexual trauma to boot.

“I mean, I guess I was always aware of the possibility,” he continues, “but that was when I was homeless kid in the Alley. And no one ever actually...”

“I'm glad,” says Dick. “For whatever it's worth now.”

Jason gives a wry laugh. “Yeah, guess I gotta knock off that gold star, huh?”

He's twisted in the wheelchair, one arm slug over the back to half-face Dick. It's the kind of open posture he always uses, loudly proclaiming his ease to anyone who can see.

“How are you so okay with this?” Dick blurts out

Jason furrows his brows. “You think I'm okay?”

“You're—” Dick gestures vaguely towards him. “I don't know, _joking_ about it.”

“Yeah, and I'm gonna keep fuckin' talking and joking about it until it stops being such a nightmare.”

“Does that work?”

Jason shrugs unconvincingly.

“Why, what were you gonna do?” he asks.

Dick hesitates. “...I was just going to never think about, talk about, or remotely acknowledge it ever.”

“Does _that_ work?”

Considering the only thing truly competing for space in his brain with the feeling of too many eyes, and Jason dying below him and guilt and shame, is the sense memory of rain and blood and Catalina above him (and guilt and shame)...

Dick imitates his shrug.

“Yeah,” says Jason. “Ain't that the truth.”

Dick slowly untangles his legs. If the Nightwing suit isn't meant for long-term sitting, it's _definitely_ not meant for doing it cross-legged. Hard creases dig into the back of his knees, shooting little spikes of pain as the blood rushes back in. God, he should really take this off.

Soon. Maybe. He thinks he can try to manage it.

“You're really okay being around me?” he asks, after a few minutes of silence.

Jason shrugs, eyes averting in embarrassment. “Might prefer it. Maybe it sounds stupid, but you're...locked in as safe, I guess.”

Dick's heart swells.

“You?” Jason asks.

“'Course I want you around.”

“I'm triggering you,” Jason points out.

Dick looks up to think. Of all the people he expected to easily and accurately bring up mental health terms, somehow he didn't count on Jason.

“It's not really you,” he says eventually. “It's just...a lot of stuff.” He laughs humorlessly. “I know you didn't get the memo, but I'm a mess.”

“Yeah, you need way more therapy than I thought.”

“You're one to talk,” Dick grumbles.

“I'm not making a therapy pact with you,” says Jason.

“Good.”

“Good.”

There are a lot of things Dick can't handle, and at least for tonight, one of those things is talking at length about this to anyone, even a professional stranger.

Well. Maybe anyone but Jason. Only because he already knows.

“Are you staying?” Dick asks.

Jason lets out a slow breath. “I guess I could let Alfred fuss over me for a little while.”

As far as Dick knows, Jason has never spent a night in the Cave since his return, and may or may not have stepped foot in the manor at all. He conceals both his surprise and relief.

“You gonna start convincing yourself you're a terrible monster again?” Jason asks, propping an elbow on his armrest.

“No promises.” Dick tries to make it a joke, though it comes out a little too honest. “Not today,” he amends. “I'll keep you posted about tomorrow.”

“Good, you do that.” Jason flushes, looking away. “I mean. Someone's gotta knock sense into you or whatever.”

Dick smiles. “Thanks.”

Jason is sitting right there, six feet from him. He's alive and healthy and hasn't even once indicated the pain is high. And somehow he doesn't want to cut Dick out of his life.

“We're okay?” Dick asks softly.

Jason sighs, like it's an enormous burden to be sincere for five seconds. “Yeah, Dickface. We're gonna be alright.”

It's not what he meant, but it might be better. He can't believe Jason phrases it as a _we_.

“I know I don't say it much,” Dick starts, eyeing the zipper of his suit thoughtfully, “but I'm glad I got you as a brother.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Dick pretends not to see his smile.


End file.
